


The Things We Do Not Say

by RoxanneRolls



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneRolls/pseuds/RoxanneRolls
Summary: Gibbs takes weekend sanctuary at his cabin after a difficult case that still gnaws at his gut - for good reason.  When he doesn't show up to work Monday morning, it's all hands on deck for the team to begin the search.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 55
Kudos: 159





	1. One More Evening

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original story, not based on any particular episode. It is complete, so I will be posting a chapter a day. The first few chapters are relatively short, but chapters are longer as the story progresses. Many thanks for those of you who have given kudos and made comments on my previous two stories. They are definitely appreciated and give me inspiration to play more with my favorite guy and Slibbsverse.

**The Things We Do not Say**

**by MAHC/RoxanneRolls**

**_The things we do not say, the_ **

**_thoughts we rather lock inside_ **

**_our heads, and the feelings we_ **

**_just keep hidden in our souls;_ **

**_these are the things that_ **

**_either keep us sane or drive us_ **

**_to madness. - Daniel Saint_ **

**Chapter 1: One More Evening**

**Monday, 0135 hours**

Gibbs stole almost silently over the fallen pine needles that covered the ground between the trees, his movements flickering like an Edison Kinetoscope beneath the scattered light cast by a Harvest Moon. Marine Corps training took over every step, every breath, every thought. This was second-nature to him, and he had no doubt that, under normal circumstances, he could out-guess, out-distance, and out-last his adversary. 

But the pain that pulsed in his head, the raw burning that ate through his side, the blood that trailed down his arm, hip, and thigh, and the nausea that pushed into his throat, all reminded him these were not normal circumstances.

**XXX**

**Sunday, 1630 hours (7 hours earlier)**

The crispness of a Virginia afternoon in early fall welcomed NCIS Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and he embraced it. It had been a trying two weeks on a case that brought up more questions than answers by the time they had managed to put it to bed, and though it was technically closed, those dangling loose ends nagged at him. Despite Leon Vance’s order that he take a weekend off so his team could shake their feet of the clinging dust of the case, he could not keep his mind from going back over the details that had not quite been resolved.

A female ensign on 24-hour shore leave was discovered tied to a birch tree by a couple hiking along the Rappahannock River, her body showing evidence of rape and mangled from torture before she was gutted with a hunting knife, according to Kasie’s forensic findings. The case was chock full of coincidences, and that did not sit well with Gibbs’ gut and Rule #39: There is no such thing as a coincidence. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen neatly into place – too neatly – and Vance had declared the case solved and closed. 

Richard Logan, the Navy lieutenant that Gibbs pegged from the beginning, had walked when Petty Officer Sanchez, the murdered ensign’s boyfriend, conveniently turned up dead, a suicide note admitting his guilt. Gibbs had a theory about Logan but no hard evidence, and that stuck in his craw.

Sighing, he shook his head and concentrated on pushing the frustrating thoughts back into the mental compartment he had established for solving puzzles. Somewhere above him, a mockingbird chattered away, showing off the versatility that gained his species its name. In the distance, water rushed over rocks that had been smoothed by the same creek for Millenia. Gibbs drew energy from the snap of the air and the calming sounds of nature. Already feeling the chill of the approaching evening, he set about chopping wood to make sure his fireplace was stocked enough to last the night. He would rise before dawn the next day to head back to D.C. and work, but he wanted one more evening listening to the chirp of cicadas, the bark of tree frogs, and the occasional hoot of a great horned owl while he lay beside the glow of a crackling fire. 

He had already worked up a good sweat and just reared back to swing his axe down again when the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot cracked the air. Before he could even process that, he felt a hard punch to his lower left side, knocking him off his feet and onto the stones that lay in front of his cabin. Even in mid-air, he had the presence of mind to throw the axe away from himself to avoid a serious injury, but as he lay on his back, stunned and staring up at a fading blue sky, birds scattering in alarm, an excruciating pain erupted where he had felt the punch. 

“Damn it!” he half-groaned and half-grunted, clutching at his T-shirt, already soaking red as blood welled from the hole in his side three inches below his rib cage. Reaching back, he felt a larger, ragged exit wound and was somewhat relieved to note it was a through-and-through. Still, he had to stop the bleeding before –

Another shot zinged through the air, ricocheting off the woodpile and sending a jagged splinter into his scalp just above his left temple. With blood streaming down his side and face, he scrambled up the steps and into the cabin, shoving the door closed and grabbing his own rifle from where it was perched just inside.

Falling back against a wall, he managed to prop the gun so that it pointed directly at the cabin door before sliding his right arm out of the sleeve of his flannel shirt. With as deep a breath as he could take, he set his jaw, then eased the left arm out, unable to hold back a gasp when the movement jarred his side. Gibbs’ eyes stung from the salt of blood that had splattered across his face, and he took a second to wipe them with the sleeve of the shirt he had just removed. Knowing the next step would be harder, he braced his right boot against a table leg and reached with his right hand to drag up the remaining T-shirt. With a pounding head and burning gut, he blinked back the sweat that broke out across his forehead, struggling, and finally managing, to free himself.

Even though he had burned Rule 10 a year before, Gibbs had no plans ever to toss Rule 9 into the fire. While his trembling hand clutched at the knife, sawing through the cotton fabric to create rough strips for bandages, he tried to focus on hearing any outside noises – until the swirl of darkness closed in on him, even as he chanted to himself…

_Do not pass out. Do not pass…out. Do not…pass…out. Do…not…pass…_

**TBC**


	2. Not a Thing

**Chapter 2: Not a Thing**

**Monday, 0750 hours**

Senior Field Agent Timothy McGee swung his backpack off his shoulder in a practiced move, dropping it almost noiselessly behind his desk and automatically punching buttons to boot up his desk computer. He was so focused on pulling up the GPS tracking program he had been fiddling with over the weekend that he missed the fact that Bishop was standing in front of his desk, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Finally, his brain noted her presence, and he looked up, greeting her with a quick, “Morning.”

“Is Gibbs in MTAC?” she asked without preamble, casting a quick glance up the stairs.

“Um, I just got here, you may have noticed.”

“Ha ha,” she sang sarcastically. “I just thought maybe you knew of something he had to do this morning.”

McGee cocked his head, just then really noticing that Gibbs’ desk was empty, no coat over the chair, no papers in front of the computer. He let his gaze follow Bishop’s. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Oh man!” Torres called out gleefully, striding in just behind McGee. “Are you telling me we beat Gibbs in today?”

Wide-eyed, Bishop shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s ever happened, except when he told us ahead of time that he was doing something else.”

“How about when he went off the grid?” Torres reminded them.

Torn between assuring his team that Gibbs knew how to take care of himself and letting the genuine concern that pushed up into his throat overwhelm him, McGee took a calming breath. “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he reasoned.

Bishop snapped her fingers. “Why don’t we ask Jack?”

“Oh, you _know_ she’s with him.” Torres wiggled his eyebrows pointedly.

“No, we don’t know that, Torres,” McGee scolded, well aware that Nick was convinced that Slibbs, as they had taken to calling whatever relationship the two veteran agents had, was real. The ding of the elevator drew his attention in the hope that it might be their boss, but Torres and Bishop seemed to be too involved in their Slibbs speculation to note it.

“Come on,” Nick argued. “Do you see Jack here? Gibbs is late…Jack is late…”

Almost giddy now, Bishop grinned. “You think so?”

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” said Torres, shrugging.

Just as Tim was beginning to think they might be right, Jack Sloane rounded the corner, snappy grey jacket over one arm, a cup of what was most likely extremely sweet coffee the other hand, but there was no Boss following her.

“Not that hard to figure out what?” she asked, a pleasant smile greeting them as she strode into the bullpen.

Bishop froze. “Um – “

“Where Gibbs is this morning,” Torres filled in smoothly.

McGee watched Jack’s brow draw into a frown as she turned to look at the SSA’s empty desk. “We, uh, we figured maybe you’d know where he is,” he suggested carefully.

Her head swung back around to face Tim, her expression frustrated. “Oh, come _on_ , guys. I am telling you Gibbs and I do _not_ have a thing!”

Three skeptical pairs of eyes stared at her, and Tim smirked. “‘Me thinkst thou dost protest too much,’ Jack.”

Dark eyes flashed at him. “Thinkst that, dost thou?” the usually warm voice cracked coldly. 

Eyes widening, Tim stammered, “Um…maybe.”

“Hey, Jack,” Torres said, hands out in placation. “It’s cool. Nobody cares what you and Gibbs do off the clock, ya know?”

Grinning, Bishop added, “I think it’s sweet.”

But if Sloane felt any pressure to admit to a relationship with Gibbs, she surely didn’t show it. “Seriously, you people are unbelievable! I have no idea what Gibbs did this weekend, but whatever he did, he did _not_ do it with _me_!”

“O-kaaaay,” Tim said, wisely not repeating the clichéd line from Shakespeare, but silently considering that Jack was just making his case for him.

Opening his eyes wide and putting on an exaggerated grimace, Torres teased, “Oh, I see. He didn’t, but you wanted him to.”

“What? No! Gibbs can do whatever he wants with me,” Jack declared, then winced. “I mean…he can do whatever he wants…I mean…” Finally, she pressed her lips together and glared at Nick, who at least made an effort to mask his smirk.

In the middle of her own grin, Ellie abruptly straightened. “Wait a minute. Jack, if you and Gibbs really weren’t together this weekend – “

Sloane rolled her eyes.

Torres interrupted, picking up the line of thought. “Then where the hell _is_ Gibbs?”

**TBC**


	3. Old Friend

**Chapter 3: Old Friend**

**Sunday, 1642 hours**

Gibbs’ eyes reopened suddenly, and panic jolted through him as he remembered where he was and what had happened. He pressed a hand to his head, immediately wincing in pain and then frowning when he pulled away and saw the blood staining his fingers. 

_How long have I been out? Where is the shooter now?_ _What’s the endgame?_ _Where’s my damn phone?_

Thoughts crashed into each other in his brain as he tried to gather enough lucidity for his next move. He answered the first question when he looked down at his watch, breathing easier when he realized that he had been unconscious for only a few minutes. Nevertheless, his assailant had gained precious minutes either to escape or to approach to finish him off. 

For a few seconds, he concentrated on the sounds outside the door. The woods were strangely quiet. Gibbs didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign, but he began laying out his options, realizing that he first had to try to get the wound through his side to stop bleeding or he wouldn’t have _any_ options. He folded over several strips of the T-shirt he had torn up, creating two pressure bandages, and with fingers that were progressively refusing to work well, he pushed hard against the wounds, growling out his pain even while he wrapped the rest of the strips around his waist to hold the bandages in place. Exhausted, he leaned back against the log wall, his bare torso glistening with blood and sweat, his chest heaving as he tried to slow his breathing and clear his head.

If the shooter was still out there he most certainly was either waiting him out or closing in. Using his right hand to pull himself to his knees, Gibbs took a chance to crawl the few feet from the door and look through the front window just as it shattered from the impact of another bullet, sending him diving to the floor as it showered him with glass shards,. He had thrown up his right hand instinctively for protection, and it and his forearm now dripped with blood from a nasty array of slices. He didn’t have time to worry about that. Instead, he grabbed his rifle and ripped the shredded burlap curtains away, pushing the barrel out between jagged remnants of window pane. Firing back, he was not worried about aiming or actually hitting anybody yet. Now, he was just buying time.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes, and no fire was returned, but Gibbs knew his attacker was still out there, so he waited, head throbbing, side burning, hand and arm slick and stinging. Even through the pain, he mentally catalogued the most viable options he had to get out of a bad situation. His chances of getting any help were slim to none. No one expected him back until Monday. His land was relatively isolated, and anyone who happened to hear the shots would probably assume they came from hunters. Cell coverage was iffy at best in the cabin, but even if he could get a signal out, he got the answer to another question when he remembered that he had left his phone on the front seat of his truck. His best choice was to take out the shooter.

Another quick peek gave him a glimpse of movement behind his truck, parked at the edge of the woods about 80 yards away, just before more gunfire peppered the porch and thick log walls. Gibbs dropped down, left shoulder pressed against the front wall, trying to think. He closed his eyes for a moment, playing back the image he had gotten just seconds ago. The attacker appeared to be around six feet tall, wore green – maybe camo – and a baseball cap. Getting a bead on him behind the truck was almost impossible with bullets spraying the cabin every time Gibbs tried to raise up for a view.

_Damn it!_ There had to be some way to get to him. Otherwise, he could just wait until Gibbs either tried to make a break for it or passed out from pain and blood loss. Already, his brain fought the fog that had begun to cloud his ability to think.

If he could just get to his truck, but the vehicle was useless to him now. A sudden idea popped through the fog, and he gritted his teeth as, carefully and as quietly as possible, he dragged the homemade bench that was between the door and the front window so that it was directly under the window. Propping one knee on it and bracing his right shoulder against the wall, he eased the mouth of the rifle barrel flush with the window opening, keeping his body hidden, which also kept him from seeing any sign of the shooter himself. With his right hand slick from the blood and stiff and aching from lacerations, he switched the butt of the rifle to his left shoulder and slid his left index finger over the trigger. 

Blinking back the blood still seeping from his head wound, he looked through the sight, lowering it to rest on his new target. _Sorry, old friend._ With a slow breath in and then back out, he squeezed the trigger, hearing the ping of his bullet hitting dead-on only milliseconds before the truck exploded. The blast was far enough away that it did not endanger the cabin, but close enough that Gibbs felt the heat rush through the broken window as he lay prone on the bench. 

An agonized scream followed the explosion but lasted only a few seconds before it stopped. Swallowing hard, Gibbs twisted so that he could sit on the bench and look out the window at the burning, smoking hulk that had once been his Ford F250 pickup truck.

**TBC**


	4. Who the Hell Is Zale?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ping his phone, McGee,” Bishop urged, worry clouding her brown eyes.
> 
> The SFA hesitated. It was not as if he had not done that very thing in the past, but one did not just ping the Boss’ phone on a whim. Dealing with an angry Gibbs who felt his privacy had been invaded was not something McGee looked forward to. What if the man was simply late to work, for no reason. As soon as he had the thought, though, he realized how absurd it was. Gibbs was never just late to work for no reason. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the kudos and most especially for comments. I hope you enjoy Chapter 4.

**Chapter 4: Who the Hell Is Zale?**

**Monday, 0815 hours**

“Ping his phone, McGee,” Bishop urged, worry clouding her brown eyes.

The SFA hesitated. It was not as if he had not done that very thing in the past, but one did not just ping the Boss’ phone on a whim. Dealing with an angry Gibbs who felt his privacy had been invaded was not something McGee looked forward to. What if the man was simply late to work, for no reason. As soon as he had the thought, though, he realized how absurd it was. Gibbs was _never_ just late to work for no reason. 

Nodding, he sat at his computer and pulled up Gibbs’ number as the others tried to pretend they were not hovering. But his attempts revealed nothing. His gut, having developed from almost 17 years of watching Gibbs follow his own gut, was churning. Catching the eyes of the three agents eagerly waiting, he shook his head.

“Maybe he just turned it off,” Torres offered, but his tone belied his doubt.

“Or he didn’t want to be disturbed,” Bishop speculated, “so he shoved it in a coffee cup.”

Torres and Jack turned to look at her.

“Saw him do it once,” she declared, pointing to Gibbs’ empty desk. “Right there.”

McGee stood. “Okay, who’s gonna drive down there to see if he’s okay?”

“Whaddaya mean who?” Nick backed toward his own desk. “You’re the senior field agent, Mister Senior Field Agent.”

“I’ll go,” Bishop volunteered. “I’ll risk him getting mad at me. Got to admit, I’m worried.”

Jack pressed her lips together, then bobbed her head. “I’ll go with you. I just have a feeling something’s not right.” Tim saw the uneasiness that bunched between her brows.

Rolling his eyes, Torres said, “All right, all right. I’ll go, too. Might as well get my ass kicked along with yours.”

Seeing Nick’s act for what it was, McGee nodded and grabbed the keys to one of the Chargers their team usually drove. “We’re all going.”

Bishop brought up the rear as they hurried toward the elevator. “Should we let the director know what’s going on? I mean, it’ll take like, two hours to get there.”

McGee hesitated, having already rejected that idea in his head. One the one hand, Leon was Gibbs’ friend, and he would want to know if there was something wrong. On the other hand, Leon was the Director of NCIS, and might not authorize his agents to go off on a wild goose chase to search for the most capable agent he had, who was probably just taking some time to rest after a long case. Then there was another thing to consider, and that was how Gibbs would see all this, assuming they found him perfectly fine and chopping wood like Paul Bunyan.

“Let’s wait to see what we find out,” he said. “If it’s nothing, and Gibbs is pissed, it would be even worse for him to know Director Vance was part of it.”

“Try to channel Gibbs,” suggested Torres. “That way, we’ll get there in an hour and a half.”

Three affirmative hums answered him as they shuffled into the elevator.

**XXX**

**Sunday, 1738 hours**

The immediate threat over, Gibbs pushed himself off the bench and staggered over to the handmade bed, collapsing onto it with a groan. When he pressed a hand against the bandages, he felt the sticky wetness soaking through and knew he could not let himself lie there long. Odds were that his assailant had not hiked from the main road, which was 10 miles away, and that meant he had left a vehicle somewhere. Even if the keys had been incinerated with him, Gibbs hoped that maybe it was old enough to be hot-wired, or maybe the guy had left his own cell phone in it like Gibbs had.

Finally, he rolled off the bed onto his hands and knees, sucking in a breath at the sharp pain that sliced through his right arm when he used it to push up from the floor. Staggering around the cabin like a drunken man, he grabbed the few things he could manage to take with him, clipping a canteen to his belt, palming his Colt, and double-checking his knife and Sig ankle weapon. He shrugged back into the discarded flannel shirt, not bothering with buttons, before hauling his backpack onto his shoulders.

Easing to the door, he cracked it open, squinting through the scrim of gray that had covered the woods past the light from the ebbing truck fire. Setting his teeth against the pain, he tugged at the heavy wooden door and stepped onto the porch, glancing to his left with a regretful headshake. That had been a good truck. He limped toward the wreckage to confirm that his attacker was pretty much toasted.

“Zale! Hey!” The shout came from the other side of the truck, just beyond the bend in the road.

Gibbs’ instincts pushed him back toward the cabin, but he knew he could not chance getting trapped there. Instead, he turned uphill, adrenaline kicking the weakness and pain behind him long enough for him to scramble past the outhouse and into the woods. Knowing his burst of energy was going to be short-lived, he concentrated on speed while still keeping his steps as quiet as possible.

_Zale?_ He tried to swim through his blurred thoughts to reach for that name, but nothing surfaced.

“You get him?” he heard, now from more of a distance. “Shit, man! You blew up his truck?”

It only took those few words for Gibbs to log the voice and identify the new threat: Lieutenant Logan, Ensign Prados’s murderer, and the man who obviously wanted to be Gibbs’ murderer, too. 

_Who the hell, then, is Zale?_

Logan’s continued calls for Zale, whoever he was, would not last much longer before he figured out Charred Charlie’s identity and came after his lost prey. Somehow, Gibbs would have to circle back around to the cabin road, maybe even trying to intersect with the main county road 10 miles away. At least with night falling he might stand a chance of the darkness keeping him hidden. 

But after only a few hundred yards, the shock of pain from his injuries exploded through the waning adrenalin, staggering him, and narrowing the gray forest to a pinpoint. He barely managed to keep his feet long enough to fall against the scratchy bark of a pine tree when the pinpoint turned black, erasing all vision and thought before he even hit the ground. 

**TBC**


	5. Talk to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Sloane had never been invited to Gibbs’ cabin, an omission she had hoped to correct the past weekend, but her blatant hints had gone unacknowledged when they had last talked in her office Friday afternoon. 

**Chapter 5: Talk to Me**

**Monday, 0930 hours**

Jack Sloane had never been invited to Gibbs’ cabin, an omission she had hoped to correct the past weekend, but her blatant hints had gone unacknowledged when they had last talked in her office Friday afternoon. 

**XXX**

_“So Leon seemed pretty serious about your team not coming in this weekend,” Jack said, as she pulled her legs up under her and settled on her office couch, facing him._

_He was leaned forward in one of her chairs, elbows on his thighs, head down, fingers interlaced loosely. He had been that way for at least fifteen minutes as she finished paperwork for another team’s case, not moving, not talking except to refuse her offer of a sucker or coffee. She had never known him to refuse either. Finally closing the file folder, she had pushed away from her desk and walked to the couch, receiving only a flinch of a smile when she appeared in front of him._

_She took the moment to study him, not caring if he realized it or not. The first thing that stood out was the fact that he needed a haircut. High and tight was getting low and loose, and even more worrisome was the two-day stubble that scratched at his jaw. Gibbs had always taken care to look his best at the office, and he always came clean-shaven, even if he had been called in at midnight. But the case had been frustrating and messy, and she knew for a fact that he had failed to make it home at least five of the past twelve nights they had been working on solving the ensign’s murder._

_In a completely different situation, she would have enjoyed the scruffy look, especially if it was accompanied by a red USMC hoodie and well-worn jeans while she helped him work on his ubiquitous boat in the basement. Now, though, concern overrode attraction._

_“Talk to me, Gibbs. What’s up?”_

_He did not seem surprised at her question, but he only shook his head in response before leaning back, hands clasped behind his head, eyes staring up at her ceiling. Biting her lip to keep herself from asking again, Jack just watched, face tight with empathy, waiting until he was ready to share._

_When a full minute passed, and she saw his eyes close and the furrow deepen between his brows, she leaned forward and placed a hand gently on his knee. “Hey.”_

_He finally let his eyes meet hers, and the pain, guilt, and frustration she saw reflected in the clear blue made her heart ache. “Oh, Cowboy.”_

_“He did it. My gut tells me he did it, but – “_

_“The lieutenant?”_

_He nodded. “We’re missing something.”_

_Far be it for her to doubt the Gibbs’ Gut. It had not taken her long to realize that his intuition was rarely wrong, but the evidence overwhelmingly led them to the petty officer, and the petty officer himself had left a confession._

_“Leon feels that you got him. Case closed.”_

_Gibbs shot up from the chair so abruptly that Jack jerked back, startled, as he paced between her desk and the opposite wall. “It shouldn’t be!” he snapped between gritted teeth. “Leon likes a neat ending. This one is too neat. Rule – “_

_“ – thirty-nine,” she finished for him, and was gratified to see the shadow of a smile cross his lips._

_“Yeah. Too neat.”_

_“What are you going to do?”_

_He sighed and scratched absently at his jaw. “Like you said, been ordered off duty. Guess I’ll just be…off duty.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he shrugged. “Maybe go down to the cabin. Prep it for colder weather.”_

_“Want some company?” As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. She had promised herself she wouldn’t push him, would let him take the next step in whatever this “thing” that she swore they weren’t having was._

_He might have flinched – she wasn’t sure – but it was easy to hear the rejection. “Should be going,” he said, turning his back to her and reaching out for the door knob. “See ya Monday, Jack.”_

_And he was gone. She didn’t know if she should be embarrassed, hurt, angry, or all three. “Wonder what Grace is doing right now?” she muttered, looking up at the damn elephant painting and noting that he had his back turned to her, too._

**XXX**

Her attention jumped back to the car and its occupants as McGee swerved off the smooth state road and onto a narrow, rough county road that threw up so much slag behind that it looked like the exhaust was smoking. Even if it was, she didn’t figure McGee would stop. Despite his attempts to be calm and in control as senior field agent, she saw how white his knuckles were as he gripped the steering wheel. 

Truth be told, she was worried, too. Scared, really, she admitted to herself, forgetting her irritation as she fretted over the situation they might find him in. If they discovered he had just tossed his phone and was sitting casually by the fireplace enjoying a fresh fish dinner, she would – well, she would hug the hell out of him before she punched him. She prayed she had that chance.

**TBC**


	6. I Got a Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie figured her friend could deny that she and Gibbs had a thing as many times as she wanted; the two agents, both of whom had been through so much, were special to each other, and she was pretty sure Jack loved him and maybe was even in love with him. What would it do to her if they found Gibbs…if he was –

**Chapter 6: I Got a Body**

**Monday, 0050 hours**

He was cold. That’s the first bit of awareness he had. He didn’t like being cold. His subconscious reasoning fussed at him for letting the fire go out. That was a probie move, and he was no probie. It occurred to him that a quick way to warm up would have been to accept Jack Sloane’s self-invitation to join him at the cabin. 

_Why the hell didn’t I?_

The answer came in the form of Grace Confalone’s voice telling him he was scared… _”despite being a badass Marine and steely-eyed NCIS special agent, Popeye.”_ A smile curved his lips, as he recalled their last therapy session, much too long ago. _“Tell me what you’re scared of,” Grace had prodded._

_I’m scared something will happen to her because of me. I’m scared of loving her and then losing her like I lost Shannon. I’m scared of not being what she needs me to be. I’m scared of depending on someone._

Except he had not said any of those things to Grace. He had just shrugged, half-opened his mouth to hedge on an answer, and breathed a sigh of relief when his phone rang and dragged him out of there to a new crime scene. 

But not saying them to Grace did not change the fact that every statement was true. Because of that, he had run like a coward when Jack strongly hinted that she would like to go to the cabin with him. His weekend would have been different, that was certain. He imagined her genuine smile glowing at him, her honey brown eyes speaking without words, her golden hair shimmering in the firelight…her lithe, long legs entangled with his as they lay in front of the cabin fireplace, He wouldn’t be cold then. Jack would warm him. Jack would make things better. Jack would –

Gibbs shuddered awake, blinking in confusion first, then pain, and then realization. He was not at the cabin, with or without Jack. He lay crumpled on a bed of pine needles, darkness surrounding him, the blood that coated his arm and side now clotted and sticky with the night chill. The thought of Jack spurred him to move, regardless of his body’s desire or ability to obey. Summoning every ounce of steel within him, he levered himself up, using the pine tree as support, until he was standing on his own. Either his determination or the cold had numbed his injuries enough for him to think a little clearer. He didn’t know if Logan was still looking for him, but had to work under the premise that he was. Glancing at his watch, he calculated how far he had come and how much farther he had to go before either he reached the road or Logan reached him.

For a while, he stole almost silently over the fallen pine needles that covered the ground between the trees, his movements flickering like an Edison Kinetoscope beneath the scattered light cast by a Harvest Moon. Marine Corps training took over every step, every breath, every thought. This was second-nature to him, and he had no doubt that, under normal circumstances, he could out-guess, out-distance, and out-last his adversary. But the pain that pulsed in his head, the raw burning that ate through his side, the blood that again started trailing down his arm, hip, and thigh as his body warmed up, and the nausea that pushed up his chest into his throat, all reminded him these were not normal circumstances. Still, he was determined not to make it too easy for the lieutenant to track him down.

“Agent Gibbs!”

He stopped at the distant shout of his name, squinting as if that would help him hear the voice better.

“Come on, Gibbs! I know you’re out there! I know you’re hurt! Give up, and I’ll make it easy for you!”

Logan. And gaining ground.

**XXX**

**Monday, 0945 hours**

Bishop was the first to spot the black smoke roiling angrily above the tree line as McGee topped a small rise on the rural county road.

“Look!” she called out, a sudden sickness in her stomach as she pointed toward the unnerving evidence of fiery destruction. “Oh my God! That’s where the cabin is!”

Much more calmly, McGee countered, “Maybe, Bishop. Maybe not. There are several places off this road. Could be one of those.”

But she knew – in her gut – it was coming from Gibbs’ place, and she was pretty sure the rest of them felt it, too. “Hurry, Tim!”

Eight minutes later, they turned down the rough dirt lane that Gibbs, himself, had cut. About a quarter mile after that they came up on a sedan, late model, Maryland plates, pulled almost into the trees. Breaking abruptly, McGee threw the Charger into park and palmed his sidearm. 

“Torres,” he directed calmly.

“Got your six,” the other agent said.

Bishop stayed by the car, watching both their backs, but the other vehicle turned out to be empty. She looked back into Jack’s dark gaze. This was not a good sign.

“Let’s go!” McGee called, and they piled back into the Charger, driving a few hundred more yards until they pulled into the clearing that surrounded the rustic, hand-built cabin. Bishop’s eyes were drawn to the right, where the source of the billowing black smoke was revealed. Horrified, she saw Gibbs’ old truck, or what was left of it, still smoldering, the once-gray frame now just a charred skeleton.

“Shit,” came Jack’s gasp from behind her.

Breaking, McGee turned off the car. “Okay,” he said, then stopped. Bishop heard him swallow before he repeated, “Okay.” One more beat passed as she watched him clench his jaw then breathe out hard. “Bishop, you and Torres take the cabin. I’ll check the truck. Everybody keep your heads up.” His voice sounded calm and controlled, even though Bishop knew that the most senior agent on Gibbs’ team must be worried.

“What about me?” Jack asked, barely-contained panic in her voice.

She saw McGee’s eyes widen, as if he had forgotten for a moment that Jack was with them.

Bishop turned to look at her. Gibbs was a father figure to Ellie, a mentor, a friend. She loved him like family, and it would absolutely devastate her if something happened to him. But _Jack?_ Ellie figured her friend could deny that she and Gibbs had a _thing_ as many times as she wanted; the two agents, both of whom had been through so much, were special to each other, and she was pretty sure Jack loved him and maybe was even _in love_ with him. What would it do to her if they found Gibbs…if he was – _No!_ She cut off her thoughts, unwilling to mourn him until the worst was actually realized.

“Jack can go with Torres,” she offered. “I’ll check the truck with you.”

With only a slight hesitation, McGee nodded his agreement, stepping from the car and drawing his Sig Sauer at the same time. Bishop echoed his actions as they cautiously approached the steel carcass. Even though the fire that had obviously destroyed the truck was out, she felt heat from the metal, still hot enough to flush her cheeks.

“Bishop,” she heard McGee order. “Stop.”

“What?”

There was silence, then he said, voice heavy, “I got a body.”

**TBC**


	7. Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four of them stood over the body as if they were an honor guard, shock, grief, and disbelief holding them in place, unable to act, unable to speak, unable to comprehend that their bedrock lay shattered in front of them.

**Chapter 7: Bone**

**Monday, 0955 hours**

Jack froze at the door of the cabin when she heard four words that shot terror through her chest.

“I got a body.”

Maybe McGee had not intended for her to hear, but she had, and the alarm on Torres’ handsome face told her he had, also. 

For a long moment, she stood, unmoving, on the bottom step, staring past the smoldering wreck at McGee and Bishop as they looked down together. Looked down at…a body. A body that could be…

She turned at the touch of Torres’ hand on her shoulder, unable to mask the fear in her eyes. His own dark eyes were masked, perhaps in an effort to steel himself for what they were about to discover.

“Stay here, Jack,” he said quietly. “I’ll go, and if…if it’s…I’ll look at…I’ll look.”

But she couldn’t just stand there and wait, and she couldn’t just leave Gi – the body for the others to deal with. Shaking her head, she pulled away from him, slowly walking toward the carnage that might tear her heart out. As she approached the other two agents, Bishop looked up, and their eyes locked, two women who loved a man, each in a different way, but each now facing the possibility of unimaginable loss.

Beyond the twisted, charred hulk of the truck, lay the body, similarly twisted and charred. Blackened arms reached upward, locked in outstretched agony by the sudden heat of the explosion. Long legs bent at strange angles, indicating that a powerful force had blasted bones out of their joints before the fire consumed the human shell. 

“Oh my God,” she groaned.

She didn’t notice the tears that had begun streaming down her cheeks, nor the heart-rending expressions on the faces of people who had known Gibbs longer than she had. Grimacing at the fusion of clothing and skin, the melted facial features, Jack swallowed down a surge of nausea. She remembered running her fingers over the firm jaw, pressing a kiss against the high cheek, leaning her head against the broad shoulder. Her gaze fell on the remnants of a ball cap next to the corpse, too shredded to identify, but certainly not out of place for the man they were most likely looking at.

Gibbs didn’t deserve to go out like that. Gibbs deserved to go out as a hero, saving the crew of a ship, or sacrificing himself for the life of a child, or even sailing away peacefully on his latest boat. But mostly, he didn’t deserve to go out at all, not yet anyway. He deserved to know love again, to know that he was loved, and, _damn it,_ Jack wanted to have been the one who gave it to him, and got it from him. 

The four of them stood over the body as if they were an honor guard, shock, grief, and disbelief holding them in place, unable to act, unable to speak, unable to comprehend that their bedrock lay shattered in front of them.

Finally, voice hoarse, thick, and heavy, McGee said, “Nick, bag…and…tag.”

“What the hell, Tim?” Bishop snapped. “We can’t just treat this like any other scene. We can’t just treat _him_ – “

“We don’t know that it’s Gi – that it’s him,” McGee returned quietly, still looking at the body.

Torres stepped past Sloane, squeezing her hand in the process. “Tim, body’s about Gibbs’ height. It’s Gibbs’ cabin. Gibbs’ truck. I don’t want it to be him, either, but we have to face the possibility that it is.”

McGee shook his head slowly, staring at the body. “No,” he groaned, then repeated in a whisper, “No.”

Even through her own deep pain, Jack hurt for the man who had been with Gibbs for almost 18 years, who had survived torture and starvation with the SSA, who thought of him as a surrogate father. Jack reached out to him, to comfort and find comfort.

But McGee suddenly shook her off, falling to his knees next to the body. “No!” he shouted, laughing and almost in tears. 

“Tim,” she tried, stepping behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, worried that the agent was breaking down right in front of them.

Grinning at all of them, he pushed to his feet and pointed toward the charred remains. “Look! Look at the leg,” he directed urgently, his voice louder, excited.

Torres looked, shaking his head. “McGee, it’s a leg. What – “ 

“The _left_ leg. Look at the _left_ leg!”

Bishop leaned forward next to Jack, and they peered down at the indicated limb, which was a grotesque mush of charred flesh, twisted sinew, and shattered bone. 

“Oh, my God!” Ellie gasped. “Bone!”

Realization slammed into Jack like a wave against a surfer, and joy poured over the burning grief, relieving pain, restoring hope.

“Uh, yeah,” Torres said. “It’s bone…and a bunch of other sick stuff. Why –“ 

With a wide smile, McGee declared, “Gibbs’ left knee is _not_ bone, it’s titanium.”

“Right!” Ellie added. “He had to have it replaced after Luke Harris shot him in Iraq.”

“It’s not Gibbs!” McGee laughed.

“It’s not Gibbs!” Ellie echoed.

“It’s not Gibbs,” Jack breathed. _Dear God, it’s not Gibbs._

In the midst of their joy, Torres asked, “Then where the hell is _Gibbs?”_

**TBC**


	8. Another Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted, he concentrated on lifting one heavy boot and putting it in front of the other. One step. Another step. Another step. But he managed only a few feet before his legs felt as if they were being pulled down by lead weights, and he stumbled over a pine tree root, careening wildly down a rock-strewn slope. The world swirled before him, smears of greens, grays, browns, and, finally, a blanket of black as it faded completely from his consciousness.

**Chapter 8: Another Step**

**Monday - 1005 Hours**

As McGee and Bishop set about checking the abandoned car for evidence that might identify their dead guy, Torres and Jack returned to their mission of checking the cabin. Before they had even reached the first step, though, Jack felt her breath catch at the sight of the shattered window and multitude of bullet holes and gouges peppering the porch and front wall. More terrifying than that was the blood. Splashes of rust-red led up the steps and across the threshold.

“Let me go first, Jack,” Torres said, stepping in front of her before she could even protest. Gun drawn, he used his shoulder to press the door open wider. Jack held her breath, fear clawing at her throat over what they might find.

She heard Torres sigh hard as he dropped his aim and called back, “Clear!” before he continued inside the cabin.

Swallowing in an attempt to subdue her racing heart, she followed him, but what she saw was enough to punch the breath from her. More blood. Lots and lots of blood.

“Oh my God!” she gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God!”

Blood was smeared against the wall, over the bench, across the window sill, on Gibbs’ rifle, in a chair, down the door. Dear God, it was everywhere. Even more pooled on the narrow bed and the floor, with a crimson-stained t-shirt collar, all that was left of the garment, discarded in the midst of glass shards from the shattered window.

Jack backed against the open door to steady herself, pressing her eyes shut to escape the disturbing sight long enough to regain her composure. When she opened them, Torres was standing in front of her, dark eyes full of concern.

“You okay, Jack?”

_Hell no._ She dragged in a shuddering breath and braced herself, ignoring the question. “At least he’s not…here.”

Nick nodded and squeezed her shoulder. “He’s alive, Jack. Looks like he was able to get some things together and leave.”

“Leave to go _where?_ ” she yelled, frustrated. “If our crispy critter out there was after Gibbs – and is dead now – why wouldn’t Gibbs just stay put? Look at this place! He’s hurt, Nick. He’s hurt really bad.”

“Maybe he tried to get help,” Torres contemplated. _Tried. Past tense._ “Could have headed for the road.”

Jack shook her head. “Why the hell didn’t he just use his phone?”

“I can answer that.” Stepping onto the porch, McGee held up an evidence bag with a charred flip phone inside. “It was in the truck – Oh my God!” His eyes widened as he entered the cabin. “Oh, Boss.”

Following him, Bishop asked, “Did you find any – “ before she, too, stammered at the vision of destruction and blood. “Oh my God!”

McGee took a breath, opened his mouth, closed it, took another breath, and finally said, “Look, this is Gibbs. If anybody can take care of himself in this kind of situation, it’s Gibbs, right?”

Despite the confident words, Jack saw the doubt and fear in the senior field agent’s eyes. 

“He’s out there somewhere,” Bishop said, taking her own calming breath. “We split up. Jack and Nick. Tim and me. Better chance of finding him.”

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was about the only plan they currently had. 

“Okay,” Torres said, “if he was trying to get to the county road the quickest way, he would probably have headed out behind the cabin.”

Shaking her head, Bishop argued, “But why didn’t he try to get to the other car? He had to know that guy got here somehow.”

Jack was about to chime in that something even more sinister could be in play when the distinct sound of a gunshot echoed in the distance, confirming her fear. Four heads jerked up.

“Could be a hunter,” Torres suggested, but his tone didn’t hold much conviction.

They stared at each other for only a second before everyone said at once, “Gibbs!”

**XXX**

**Monday – 1005 Hours**

Despite the coolness of the morning air, sweat ran down the side of Gibbs’ face as he wrestled the sapling into place, breath coming hard when he finally had the trap set. His stamina was just about exhausted, and he had already acknowledged the probability that if he couldn’t stop Logan here, he would not be able to out-pace him. Loss of blood, pain, and now fever drove strength from his battered body. Regardless of Marine training, NCIS experience, and plain old determination, Gibbs was also a realist. He knew this was his last chance.

After taking precious time to carve the stake, trigger stick, and toggle so that they were as effective as he could make them, given the circumstances, he crawled back over briars and rocks, struggling for breath even as he fought to keep the gasps quiet.

He had spent more than 12 hours evading Logan, which consisted of hiking through underbrush, over rocks, collapsing onto the forest floor, waking and praying Logan was not close, then dragging his aching body back up to start hiking again. Sometimes he heard his name shouted; sometimes he didn’t. He should have made it to the county road hours before, but each time he passed out, it took longer to come to, and each step he took after those moments became slower and more torturous.

Finally, he reached the conclusion that he would have to switch tactics. No more evasion. Now, he would do the opposite. If Logan wanted to find him, he would help him do just that. Scouting out an area that would work, he slid the backpack from his shoulders, grunting against the pain that swept from his side across his back and abdomen, and reached in for materials he was never without.

“Gibbs!” Logan called out, this time closer than he had been all night.

Gibbs forced himself to work steadily, not hurrying his steps, ensuring each task was done right. There would be no time to test anything. Just as he finished, he paused, realizing he couldn’t hear the other man anymore. Frowning, he tilted his head, trying to focus better. Still nothing. Head swimming, hands shaking, he knew he could not wait until Logan figured out the path again, so he drew the Colt, lifted it into the air, and, despite the trembling, fired a single shot that pierced the crisp morning, echoing through the trees and sending animals scurrying.

It took only a few minutes before he heard the faint sound of leaves and twigs crackling beneath boots, growing louder as it came toward him at a quick pace. He waited…and waited…and waited until he calculated that Logan was about 50 meters away, then pushed out from behind a stand of red elderberry bushes and stood in plain view of his tracker.

Stuttering to a halt, Logan grimaced as he caught his breath, shaking his head and throwing out a smile. “Well, well, Agent Gibbs. Thought maybe you had decided to give in and take care of things yourself.”

He shrugged, ignoring the discomfort that movement caused. “Nah. Just scaring off a rattler.”

“Ah, too bad,” Logan said. “I think in a few minutes, you are going to wish you had.”

Gibbs shifted slightly, taking weight off his left side, but did not reply.

Voice irritated, Logan prodded, “You saw Trish, right? Ensign Prado?”

Gibbs continued to stare.

“You saw what she looked like? You know how she screamed?”

Gibbs tightened his jaw.

Logan’s voice rose, angry at Gibbs’ silence. “I did that to her! That’s what I’m gonna do to you. _All_ of it.”

When Gibbs still did not respond, Logan took a breath and seemed to force himself to be calm. With a deferential nod toward his prey, he conceded, “Gotta say, you gave a good chase, but you’re not looking so good right now.”

“I’m doing just fine,” Gibbs finally said, even though it was a complete lie.

“If you say so. You know, at first I thought it was you by the truck. Should have known not to send Zale in first. He never was one much for brains.”

Gibbs lifted his chin. “Who’s Zale?”

“My idiot cousin. Promised him I’d swipe him an M9. He likes to shoot guns.” His brow furrowed, and he corrected himself. “Liked.”

Lifting a trembling hand to wipe sweat from his forehead, Gibbs asked, “You got off, Logan. You were clear. Why go after me?”

Logan took a step toward him, watching as Gibbs lowered his hand again. “I knew you wouldn’t let it go.”

“Petty Officer Sanchez.”

He nodded. “I only got off for taking care of Trish. Figured you already pegged me for Sanchez.”

“She wanted Petty Officer Sanchez, not you. You couldn’t accept that, and you got violent with her.”

Logan’s eyes widened wildly, and his mouth twisted. “I just…I just showed her that I loved her.”

“Oh yeah,” Gibbs said, his words flat with sarcasm. “I could tell by the way you raped and tortured her.”

“She wouldn’t…wouldn’t admit he was wrong for her! She wouldn’t give him up. He poisoned her against me!”

“And after you killed her, Sanchez went after you,” Gibbs surmised.

“He was crazy!” Logan yelled, gesturing at his own head.

Gibbs narrowed his eyes and cocked his jaw. _Crazy is right._

“Idiot! She deserved better.”

“Gotta agree with you there.” He swayed suddenly, stretching out an arm to brace against the smooth trunk of a birch tree.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. “Don’t you die on me yet, you son of a bitch. I got plans for you. Just like Trish.”

“Yeah? Hate to disa – “ Gibbs’ legs buckled, pitching him to the ground in a heap.

“Damn it!” Logan screamed, charging toward the prone agent. Only four strides into his frantic dash, his right foot landed directly on the spot Gibbs had set up. The snare noose jerked tight around his ankle, knocking the trigger stick from under the end of the toggle and snapping the sapling back hard. Flailing wildly, Logan flew up and sideways, the momentum hurling him directly into an oak tree, slamming his head against the hard trunk, then slapping his body onto the ground.

He lay, unmoving, his right leg hitched up in the air, hoisted by the snare, his shoulders pressed into the leafy ground covering. Shifting so that he could take a closer look at the murderer, Gibbs instantly noted the awkward angle of Logan’s neck, and breathed out heavily. 

For several minutes, Gibbs just stayed put, letting the relief sink in, before reality prodded him with the reminder that he would most certainly die right there if he did not get off his ass and find the damn road.

Struggling to his knees and then clawing back upright, he was vaguely aware of the heat that radiated from his cheeks, but _very_ aware of the chills that had begun to shudder through his body. He brought both hands up to try to button the gaping flannel shirt to keep in some warmth, but his fingers, sliced up from the window glass and trembling from blood loss, didn’t cooperate. He had to make it to the road, had to get help before his body abandoned the fight he had worked so hard to keep up.

Exhausted, he concentrated on lifting one heavy boot and putting it in front of the other. One step. Another step. Another step.

But he managed only a few feet before his legs felt as if they were being pulled down by lead weights, and he stumbled over a pine tree root, careening wildly down a rock-strewn slope. The world swirled before him, smears of greens, grays, browns, and, finally, a blanket of black as it faded completely from his consciousness. 

**TBC**


	9. Oorah!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrambling to peer down the hill, Jack spotted a backpack, one strap caught on the low limb of a cedar tree. Raising her gaze to scan the bottom of the ravine below them, she saw what looked like a clump of rags at first glance until both relief and terror flooded her.
> 
> Oh, God, please don’t let him be dead.

**Chapter 9: Oorah!**

**Monday, 12:35 Hours**

Crouching, Torres raised his hand in silent warning. Following his lead, Jack bent down, but kept her head up, narrowing her gaze to focus on an anomaly amid the greens and browns of the woods. After a few seconds, her brain managed to make sense of what her eyes saw.

“Nick,” she said, voice carefully level but pointed.

“I see it. Checking it out.”

“Got your six.”

She watched as he crept closer to the disturbing sight of a body, strung up by one leg from a young tree, bent under the weight. After a spark of fear shot through her, she breathed easier when she saw that the body was not Gibbs.

Torres holstered his pistol and lifted his chin to signal the all clear. “Man, this has Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs written all over it.” Jack smiled at the admiration on Nick’s face. She knew that, even though he and Gibbs sometimes butted heads over procedure, the younger agent saw his boss as a mentor and friend.

She bent so that she could look into the dead glazed eyes and purple-mottled face. “Logan.”

“Yep,” Torres agreed. “Gibbs’ gut again.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Never doubt the gut.”

“So, where _is_ Gibbs…and his gut?”

It took only a cursory search around the scene to find disturbed ground and splotches of blood, still sticky on the leaves. They followed a jagged trail of kicked-up leaves and dirt, zigging one way then zagging another, until it spread out past a protruding root and over the edge of the ridge they were on.

Scrambling to peer down the hill, Jack spotted a backpack, one strap caught on the low limb of a cedar tree. Raising her gaze to scan the bottom of the ravine below them, she saw what looked like a clump of rags at first glance until both relief and terror flooded her.

“Nick!” she yelled, drawing Torres to her side immediately, but she was already slipping and stumbling the rest of the way down the hill, barely hearing the gunshot signal Nick fired for McGee and Bishop.

_Oh, God, please don’t let him be dead._

But he looked dead. He lay mostly on his back, both legs sprawled out, one arm flung wide, the other twisted beneath him. And there was blood. So much blood. Jack didn’t know if it was even possible to live having lost so much. It darkened and matted his beautiful silver hair. It painted across the left side of his face and neck. It coated his torso and left hip so thoroughly she didn’t realize at first that he had bandages around his waist. Except for a ragged flannel shirt, which was completely unbuttoned and halfway ripped from his arms, he was bare-chested. 

She fell to the ground beside him, hands carefully cradling his face, unconcerned that his blood now stained her skin. “Gibbs! Gibbs!”

She vaguely heard Torres calling for the others as she leaned down to press her ear against his chest, just to the left of the long scar that ran down the center. At first, she heard nothing and was on the verge of panic when she caught a beat, and then another, and then another. They were weak and not particularly steady, but they were there. 

“He’s alive!” she cried out, just as McGee and Bishop crashed through the woods.

“Oh God!” Ellie gasped.

Behind her, McGee was calling headquarters, and Torres was telling Bishop about Logan up the hill. Jack touched Gibbs’ face again, heedless of the fact that she now had so much blood on her that she looked injured herself. 

“Gibbs,” she whispered, pushing back the hair over his temple to see how bad the head wound was.

“Vance is getting a MEDEVAC helo out here,” McGee announced, sliding the phone back into his pocket. 

Looking up at the mature forest, Torres shook his head. “No way they can land here.”

“I know. We’ll have to get him to the road for them to pick him up.”

“The road?” Ellie asked. “We don’t know if he should even be moved at all, much less – “

“You got another solution, Bishop?” McGee snapped. “We move him, he could die. We don’t move him, he _will_ die.”

Jack shuddered and pushed to her feet. “We have no other choice.”

McGee nodded. “Well, the good news is that we are only about a quarter mile from the road. That’s why I could get through to NCIS.”

“Damn!” Torres said, amazement in his voice. “Gibbs is a badass.”

Bishop cocked her head in question, and Jack noticed Nick smiling at her.

“Made it almost ten miles in that condition,” he explained, “and still took out the bad guy with some kind of super Marine tree snare thingy. That’s what I call badass.” 

If the situation were not so dire, Jack might have taken a moment to be proud of Gibbs’ badassery. She hoped there would be time and opportunity to share that pride with him later.

“Sometimes, even badasses need help,” McGee pressed. “Let’s get going. Chair carry. Torres, you get the right side. I’ll get the left.”

Gingerly, they tilted Gibbs’ body to the left enough to ease his right arm from underneath him, each of them wincing at the swollen, misshapen forearm and lacerated hand. In the distance, helicopter rotors chopped through the air.

Jack prayed they weren’t doing more damage as Tim and Nick did their best to wrap Gibbs’ limp arms around their shoulders and made a chair with their joined arms to support his hips and thighs. Bracing and sucking in fortifying breaths, they lifted him into the hold and straightened. A ragged moan left Gibbs’ lips, and his head lolled back.

“Careful!” Jack cried, holding the back of his head and easing it forward so his chin rested on his chest. “I’m here, Cowboy,” she whispered in his ear. “You hang on, you hear?”

Ellie took point, clearing away bushes and underbrush, while Jack remained right with them, talking to him, telling him things she would not have shared in front of others before, but she was terrified that he was dying. 

“Hey, Gibbs, you promised me fireplace steaks again. And potatoes. Not getting out of those. I know you wanted to be alone this weekend, but I wish to hell you had let me come with you. You know you needed a kickass Army lieutenant to have your six.” 

There was no response from him, but she saw Ellie glance back, brow lifted curiously. She didn’t care. “You’re not getting out of a cabin trip when you’re healed, so you had better make sure there _is_ a next time. Stay with me, okay. Okay, Gibbs? Stay with me, honey.”

That endearment just slipped out, and it drew a smirk from Torres even as he struggled not to lose his grip on the blood-slicked agent.

The last hundred yards were tough going. They tried not to jar Gibbs’ battered body, but his continued groans told them they weren’t too successful. 

“Easy, easy,” Jack cautioned as they finally broke from the woods and onto the narrow grassy clearing that ran down the side of the county road, only a few meters away from a waiting Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk MEDEVAC helicopter.

Ducking unnecessarily under the blades, two Navy corpsmen pushing a gurney ran out to meet them.

“Corpsman First Class Alisha Wu!” yelled one of the corpsmen, extending her hand to Bishop, then looking over at Gibbs. “Hunting accident?”

Bishop winced. “You could say that.”

Reaching out to take Gibbs’ legs and help McGee and Torres lay him on the gurney, the other corpsman pressed his fingers against Gibbs’ wrist. “Pulse is thready,” he told Wu. 

Glancing at Jack, Wu said, “He’s lost a lot of blood. He a Marine?”

Her lips curved in a tense smirk. “Ex-Marine,” she yelled back. “NCIS agent.”

But the corpsman shook her head and said, “No such thing – ”

“ – as an ex-Marine,” Jack finished. “I know.”

“Oorah!” the corpsman agreed, nodding.

McGee stepped back, gritting his teeth as he shook his arms in front of him. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

But neither corpsman satisfied them with an answer. Instead, Corpsman Wu called out, “Taking him to Portsmouth!” 

After loading the gurney onto the helo, the corpsmen leaped in behind it, thumbs up to the pilot, already hooking up IV lines and monitors as the aircraft rose, blowing gravel, dust, and leaves around them. 

Jack shielded her eyes, watching as her fears, her hopes and – she admitted to herself – her heart soared away with the MEDEVAC.

For several moments, the four agents stood there, blood stained, stunned…and stranded several miles from their vehicle.

“So,” Torres said, puffing his cheeks out with a hard sigh and looking around at the road, now quiet and deserted. “Uber?”

**TBC**


	10. Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He called Jack’s name as he held her again in his arms. “No, no, no. Not you, Jack! Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me, Jack. Please!” He thought he heard her answer, but when he looked, her dark eyes still stared, unseeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I am late posting today! Again, sincere thanks for your gracious comments. They make me smile. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

**Chapter 10: Please**

**Thursday, 0455 hours**

A low moan pulled Jack’s eyes open, and she blinked blearily until memory snapped her to abrupt awareness. She pushed up from the hard vinyl chair, hissing as her back complained about her choice of sleeping surfaces. The faint periwinkle of the sky beyond the window told her it was just before dawn, which meant she had maybe gotten a couple of hours of sleep in between nurses and night doctors checking in.

In the three days since he was air lifted to Portsmouth Naval Medical Center, Gibbs had not regained consciousness, even as he was put through an array of CT scans, X-rays, and a surgery that had taken much longer than Jack wanted it to. Though at first the doctors did not seem concerned with the fever he was running when he arrived – having been much more concerned about blood loss – they had begun to comment in the last 24 hours that the flood of antibiotics should be working better. 

Jack stood against the bedrail, her right hand resting gently on Gibbs’ forehead, her left grasping Gibbs’ left hand on the top sheet. Tubes and wires ran in and out of the covers. The one stretching down his throat had just been removed a few hours before. A white bandage wrapped around his head, a mess of silver hair sprouting up over it. His right arm was encased by an open cast, temporary until the swelling from the breaks to both his radius and ulna, and subsequent surgery, subsided enough for a hard cast. Gauze twisted around the fingers of that same hand. Jack could only surmise he had cut them on the glass from the shattered cabin window. She let her eyes roam across his bare chest and down to the thick bandages that wound completely around his abdomen. 

“Cowboy, you look like hell,” she murmured, half-expecting him to open his eyes and fix her with that patented Gibbs’ stare. She was disappointed when he didn’t.

**XXX**

After the MEDEVAC copter had lifted off from that isolated county road, they were so exhausted emotionally and physically, that they almost took seriously Torres’ joking suggestion about getting an Uber ride. Instead, McGee was able to make contact with local LEOs to meet them and help them secure the various crime scenes until another NCIS team could arrive. Even though all of them wanted to get to Portsmouth as soon as possible to check on Gibbs, they also knew the scenes needed to be bagged and tagged, and the bodies of Gibbs’ two would-be murderers taken care of. This was personal.

With Palmer and Balboa’s team on the way, McGee insisted that Jack accept the county sheriff’s offer to drive her back to D.C. She didn’t mention to Tim that she wouldn’t be going anywhere but Portsmouth. With only a bit of guilt at leaving the rest of Gibbs’ team there, she climbed wearily into the patrol car, at first making only occasional small talk with the young deputy assigned to deliver her back to NCIS. Despite her weariness, she managed to turn a warm smile on him enough to ensure that she was entering the Portsmouth Naval Medical Center emergency room doors an hour later. 

More than six hours later, during which Jack had procured a set of scrubs from a sympathetic nurse and changed out of her bloodstained clothes, a tired doctor walked into the surgical waiting room and asked for the family of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. 

Rising, Jack winced at the sight of his own blood-spattered scrubs, stark against his dark skin, her heart aching at the sight. _That’s Gibbs’ blood._

“Yes? I’m with Agent Gibbs.”

The doctor tugged off his surgical cap and brushed a hand over his short dark hair. “Wife?” he assumed.

Jack did not hesitate. “Yes.”

“I’m Doctor Omondi,” he said, with a trace of accent that Jack’s ear placed as African, Kenya maybe. “Well,” he sighed, “I don’t know exactly what happened to Mister Gibbs – “

“ _Agent_ Gibbs. NCIS.”

He nodded. “ _Agent_ Gibbs. But he is in serious condition, mainly from blood loss. He has taken four units of red blood cells and one unit of plasma so far.” Twisting his neck and wincing, he gestured to the metal and plastic chairs Jack had just vacated. “Why don’t we sit?”

She didn’t want to sit, but the surgeon looked dead on his feet, so she nodded and perched on the edge of one. He sank into another near her and rubbed his neck.

“We repaired the damage from the GSW, which was responsible for most of the blood loss. His head wound is comparatively minor.”

She wondered what constituted _minor._ Probably not what she would call it.

“Lacerations of the right hand and arm will be okay,” he continued, finally giving her a smile. “I’m amazed that he avoided a compound fracture with both the ulna and radius broken. Our ortho repaired ligament damage and set the bones.”

“He’s right-handed,” she said, praying the damage was not permanent.

“The arm will be okay eventually,” he assured her before his smile dropped. “We had to flush out a lot of debris from his wounds. They were already infected. The trauma doctor logged a fever of 101 when he first arrived. We have started him on a strong antibiotics regimen.”

He pushed himself to his feet. “All in all, your husband is pretty lucky, Mrs. Gibbs. If he hadn’t been MEDEVAC’d – ” Sighing, he took her hand and patted it. “Well, he’s pretty lucky.”

Still reeling from the list of Gibbs’ injuries, she could only stare back for a long moment, already imagining how difficult his recovery would be.

“Mrs. Gibbs?” the doctor asked, worry in his tone.

But she just nodded and covered his hand over hers. “Thank you. Can I see him?”

**XXX**

The answer had been “soon,” and so she had waited in his room for 45 minutes before they wheeled him in from Recovery. And there she had stayed for the past three days except to go back to D.C. long enough to shower and change clothes and get her go-bag. Even Ducky, when he arrived, his calm demeanor a welcome balance to her own anxiety, could not convince her to budge from Gibbs’ bedside. If the doctors and staff ever figured out she wasn’t Mrs. Gibbs they didn’t say anything, nor did they make her leave.

She had tried all of her psychology strategies on him, keeping up a steady stream of comments about the team, about Faith, about the McGee twins and Victoria Palmer, and anything else that popped into her head to stimulate Gibbs to alertness. She had made sure to touch him, which was not a hardship, of course. She held his hand, rubbed his uninjured arm, caressed his jaw and neck, and even – when no one was there to witness – pressed a kiss against his forehead. 

Still, nothing so far had brought him around. If – _when_ – he finally woke up, she planned to tease him about insulting her sex appeal by not responding to her. She had just entertained the idea of wandering down the hall in search of some bitter hospital coffee when he moaned again.

“I’m here, Cowboy,” she assured him, bending closer. “I’m here.” She grasped his left hand, threading her fingers between his and bringing their hands to her chest.

Instead of greeting her with sharp and focused icy blue, hazy gray stared up toward her. The pallor that had colored his features when he first arrived at Portsmouth was now flushed pink as his fever continued to burn. 

“Gibbs?”

She half-expected him to lapse back into unconsciousness, but instead, his head twisted back and forth on the pillow, as if he was looking for something…or someone. Pressing a hand against his warm cheek, she tried to soothe his restlessness, concerned that he might further aggravate his injuries.

“Hey, Gibbs. It’s okay. You got Logan. You did good.” Grinning as she remembered Nick’s comments when they discovered Gibbs’ booby trap, she said, “Torres says you’re a badass.” Her hand brushed back a tangle of hair that flopped over the bandage around his head. “I have to agree. That snare was a pretty badass move, Gunny.”

“Jack!” he rasped suddenly.

“Yeah,” she answered. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

But he didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, his shoulders pushed forward as he struggled to sit straighter. Alarmed, Jack pressed him back as gently as she could, but he fought her, surprising her with his strength despite his extensive injuries. 

Stretching over him to fumble for the nurse’s call button, she managed to thumb it hard enough to alert the station.

“Jack…no…go …” he mumbled, eyes glazed and red, arms flailing. She worked to block the cast from hitting her while still trying not to hurt him.

“Gibbs!” she called. “Stop!” Then she tried, “Jethro!”

Still, he struggled against her, writhing in what seemed like pain, but she didn’t know if it was physical or emotional. Maybe it was both.

“Jack,” he groaned, “please… _please_ …” 

Her eyes widened. It was unnerving to hear the rare plea leave his lips, considering that _please_ wasn’t usually part of his vocabulary. 

The door was thrown open, and Gibbs’ 11-to-7 nurse rushed in, followed by one of the residents Jack remembered seeing with Dr. Omondi earlier. 

Gibbs reached for the bedrail, twisting and grimacing as he jerked the IV line while Jack practically lay across him in an attempt to subdue him. 

“His fever is spiking,” the nurse reported, outwardly calm, but her eyes revealed her true concern.

The resident nodded, checking the chart. “Dr. Omondi was concerned he might have to go back in. There was so much debris in the wounds.” He seemed to consider the options for a moment, and then turned to the nurse and decided, “Prep him. I’ll let the OR know.”

“What?” Jack asked, heart pounding. “You have to operate again?”

But the doctor was already out the door, his near-sprint down the hall sending sharp fear right through Jack’s stomach. Gibbs was still reaching for her, calling her name, crying out. As the nurse pushed a sedative from a syringe into the IV port, his head fell back against the pillow and he looked up at Jack with beautiful but tortured blue eyes.

“ _Please,”_ he breathed once more before his body could no longer fight the medicine spreading through his veins and sending him back into oblivion.

**XXX**

Every staggering step jarred his knees, his side, his arm, his head. His vision grew narrower with each labored breath. He knew Logan was gaining on him and it would not be long before he couldn’t continue. Still, he stumbled on through briars that ripped his skin, over roots that tripped him, against tree trunks that bruised and battered his back and shoulders. If he could just make the main road, if he could just get clear of the isolated woods, if he could just –

“Agent Gibbs!” The voice was right behind him, startling him so that he lost his footing and tumbled headlong into a wild holly bush, the sharp leaves scratching his face and hands.

Rolling over, he squinted back at the man tracking him, his heavy breath catching when he saw Jack Sloane standing between Logan and him. “Jack!” he yelled, “get out of here! Go! Stay away from here! Stay away from me!” He watched in horror as Logan lifted his gun, aiming directly at Jack. Desperate, Gibbs tried to crawl toward her to pull her down. “ _Please_ , Jack! Please!”

Abruptly, the attacker was not Lieutenant Logan, but Sergei Mishnev, his eyes hugely magnified by thick glasses, his toothy grin malicious.

“Do you think you can escape me, Agent Gibbs?” he taunted, and the accent convinced Gibbs that he wasn’t seeing things. 

But how could he be seeing Mishnev? Fornell had shot the son of a bitch between the eyes years ago.

“Leroy! What are you doing here?”

_Diane?_ _What the hell?_ His heart shuddered at the sound of his ex-wife’s voice. How was she here? Mishnev had killed her. And where was Jack? Maybe she listened to him and left. He hoped she had, even if his heart ached with the thought of her leaving. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but pain exploded at his temple when he did, and he clamped his eyes shut against the agony.

Then, a shot rang out, forcing his eyes open in time to see Diane, still in her sharp white suit, fall to the ground, blood trickling from the hole in the middle of her forehead.

He cried out, scrambling on his hands and knees to her body, but before he got there, the red hair changed to wavy blonde, and the sharp features softened to those of –

“Jack!” _God, no!_ Falling beside her, he pulled her into his arms, looked into those warm honey eyes that stared sightlessly back.

He reached for his gun to blow Mishnev away, but his hand fell only on his bloody side, no belt holster, no Sig, no Colt, no nothing. Sergei’s cackling laugh jabbed through him as he dragged himself to his feet to face the bastard.

But instead of Mishnev, now he stared into the cold, calculating eyes of Ari Haswari. The rich, smooth voice greeted him calmly. “Agent Gibbs. Good to see you again. How is our dear Caitlin these days?”

Head swimming, Gibbs watched as Kate Todd walked up next to him, smiling and fresh and as beautiful as she always was. “Hey, Gibbs. You okay? You look like you’ve seen a – “

He knew Ari’s shot would come, knew he would feel the warm splatter of blood on his face as Kate dropped to the ground. Gibbs groaned, falling to his knees, and when he took her face in his hands, the shiny brunette locks had turned blonde, the beautiful, youthful features had changed to older but still beautiful features.

He called Jack’s name as he held her again in his arms. “No, no, no. Not you, Jack! Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me, Jack. _Please!”_ He thought he heard her answer, but when he looked, her dark eyes still stared, unseeing. 

Then Logan, Mishnev, and Ari stood before him, all of them, laughing and leering and demanding that he give them Jack, pulling her from him, even as he reached out, arms extended, stretching, but not quite able to save her. Weakened by the loss of blood, pain, and fever, he could only watch in despair as they carried her off. 

**TBC**


	11. Missed More Than I Realized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wanted to scream, to demand that the nurse promise Gibbs would be okay, but she let the heavy exhaustion she felt push down the frustration, and instead stepped up to the bed. Gibbs was paler than before. There seemed to be even more wires and tubes running in and out of the sheets, and the throat tube was back in. That couldn’t be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had laptop issues saving the edits I made, so I am late again today with the chapter. Only one more chapter to go after this one! I hope you enjoy it. As always, many thanks for the kind kudos and especially the comments.

**Chapter 11: Missed More Than I Realized**

**Thursday, 1230 hours**

Jack Sloane jerked awake at the clang of a hospital bed hitting the wooden door. Sitting up in the hard chair she had somehow slouched in enough to doze, she watched as an orderly pushed Gibbs’ bed back into his room, followed by a nurse who began reconnecting the appropriate monitors.

“How is he?” Jack asked anxiously.

The nurse smiled, but said, “Doctor Omondi will be in soon to talk with you.”

She wanted to scream, to demand that the nurse promise Gibbs would be okay, but she let the heavy exhaustion she felt push down the frustration, and instead stepped up to the bed. Gibbs was paler than before. There seemed to be even more wires and tubes running in and out of the sheets, and the throat tube was back in. That couldn’t be good.

_Oh, Cowboy. You just don’t do things halfway, do you?_

“Mrs. Gibbs?”

Dr. Omondi stepped into the room. This time, she noticed he must have changed scrubs before he came to talk with her. This time Gibbs’ blood was not splashed across his greens.

“How is he?” she asked, still not feeling the need to correct the misinterpretation of her relationship with the patient. “They rushed him out of here so quickly – “

“His fever was very high. There were several pockets of infection that had developed since the surgery. We got them flushed and cleaned out.” He smiled at her, this time not as tired. “He should not have any more trouble. His fever has already started going down.”

The adrenalin of the past days, and most recently the past hours she waited for this last surgery, drained abruptly, and she sat in the chair, sighing. _Thank God._

“You have been here almost the whole time,” the doctor noted, his voice gentle. “Is there someone else who might wait with him while you get some rest?”

Jack almost laughed. “Oh, there is someone. There are _lots_ of ‘someones’. In fact, some of his…” She paused, trying to decide how to describe the relationship Gibbs had with McGee, Torres, and Bishop, then smiled and said, “…kids have already been by a couple of times.” Patting the jeans’ pocket where she had stuffed her cell phone, she suddenly remembered, “And I need to let them know he’s out of surgery again.”

Omondi smiled. “Good. You have to keep yourself healthy, too, if you are going to help him recover.”

Would she? _Someone_ would have to be with Gibbs. She wondered if he would want it to be her, or if he’d want anybody _but_ her. But she only lifted her chin in acknowledgement as the surgeon checked Gibbs once more before he left.

**XXX**

**Friday, 0730 hours**

As much as she would have argued that there was no way she could fall asleep in that rock-hard chair, she found herself being gently shaken awake.

“Jacqueline?” inquired the lilting voice of her favorite NCIS historian.

“Ducky,” she greeted, stretching stiffly as she straightened.

“I thought, perhaps, you might need a little relief,” he offered, holding up his hand when she began her protest. “For coffee and maybe a bit of fresh air, my dear. Nothing more. I am under no illusions that I could convince you to leave Jethro’s bedside.”

Unfolding from the chair, she gave the former ME a soft kiss on the cheek as she stepped to the bed railing, alarmed at first to see that Gibbs looked as if he had swum the Potomac. His hair hung in sweat-drenched strands over the bandage around his head. Beads of perspiration trailed down his face and neck and glistened over his broad chest and shoulders. 

Ducky must have heard her gasp of worry, because he stepped up next to her and placed a gentle hand over hers as it rested on the rail. “Doctor Omondi told me that his fever broke around five this morning.”

She closed her eyes in relief. “That’s good news.”

“That’s _very_ good news,” Ducky assured her. “They removed the tube from his throat a little while ago. He should be waking up soon.”

She smiled, then stepped into the small bathroom and ran a washcloth under cool water, squeezing it. Back at Gibbs’ bedside, she wiped his face and neck gingerly, avoiding the healing cuts. She could feel Ducky’s gaze on her, drawing a blush to her cheeks, but she continued to wash across the wide chest, with its spread of silvery hair and the strong shoulders that showed an array of scars from years of battle and sacrifice for others.

Just as she carefully lifted his left arm for the same cleansing, Gibbs’ eyes flew open, and he lurched upward, cried out through clenched teeth, and collapsed back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut again, lungs gasping.

“Gibbs!” Jack had no idea when she had dropped the washcloth, but she was pressing both hands against his chest, trying to send comfort with her touch. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shh. You’re okay.”

To her relief, those beautiful eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding them, then comprehension clearing them. “Jack.” Her name sounded rusty in his throat, but she thought it was glorious to hear.

“Yeah, Cowboy. I’m here.” She cradled his face in both her hands, brushing a thumb over his lips just before she impulsively leaned down and breathed a kiss against them. He was either too incapacitated or too surprised to protest.

Ducky cleared his throat pointedly and moved into Gibbs’ line of sight. “Well, we are, indeed, delighted to see you awake, Jethro,” he said. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“Keep you…on your toes,” he managed to quip back, drawing a laugh from his old friend.

Patting Gibbs’ shoulder tenderly, Ducky said fondly, “Well, I shall return to NCIS to let the others know you are awake. They have been most worried. I do not doubt you will be inundated with visitors before long.”

“Thanks…Duck.”

The retired ME tossed a jaunty salute on his way out, leaving Jack and Gibbs alone.

“How do you feel?” she asked him, already knowing the answer, but she wasn’t sure exactly where to begin a conversation.

The hint of a smile lifted his lips, and she figured that must have taken a lot of energy. “Swell.”

“Uh huh.”

“How long?” he asked, licking his lips in an attempt to moisten them.

Jack picked up the Styrofoam cup with the bendy straw and held it for him to sip. “You’ve been here since Monday, when we got you from the cabin.”

When he had only drunk a small amount, his head fell back against the pillow, frowning. “No. You,” he clarified. “How long?”

At that moment, a nurse swung into the room, medicine tray in hand. “Oh, your wife has been here the whole time, Agent Gibbs. Since Monday.”

Jack had seen the famous Gibbs’ slow burn on occasion, but it had not often been directed at her. Even in pain and groggy, he arched an eyebrow and turned his head to nail her with a look. She had once warned him not to get into a staring contest with her, claiming that she would bury him, but this was different. She was torn between confession and defiance. Not sure which one she wanted to go with, she let him ponder for himself what her casual shrug meant.

“Well, Agent Gibbs!” Dr. Omondi interrupted as he breezed into the room, prompting the nurse to tell them she would be back later to administer the meds.

Gibbs turned to give the doctor his attention but did not say anything. Jack realized he had never actually met the man who saved his life, and so she took a few moments to fill in the few blanks needed for the introduction.

When she finished, he lifted his chin. “Thanks, Doc.” Typical Gibbs. Heartfelt and simple. 

“You had a rough go for a while, but things look much better now.”

“When can I go home?”

Omondi laughed. “Doctor Mallard told me those would be your first words when you woke up.”

Gibbs just held his stare until the doctor cleared his throat and said, “Not for at least a week. You _do_ realize you almost died, Agent Gibbs?”

He just grunted irritably.

Omondi continued on as if he had not heard his patient. “There is the option of going to rehab, but since your wife is with you and you won’t be alone, we can send you home. An occupational therapist will work with you there until you’re ready for more rigorous physical therapy.”

Again, Gibbs cut his eyes toward her, lips pressed together and one brow arched. “Yes,” he agreed, drawing out the word. “My… _wife_ …can help me with my…therapy.” Jack heard the amusement and challenge behind the statement, even if the doctor was oblivious. 

Omondi nodded. “Good. In the meantime, you have a lot of healing to do before that happens. I suggest you try to rest. We’ll begin getting you up in a chair tomorrow. Okay?” He patted the covers over Gibbs’ right leg, and said, “Good to have you back, Agent Gibbs,” before he headed out into the hallway.

It took only another beat before Gibbs said, “Guess I missed more than I realized when I was out.”

Jack extended her arms in a shrug. “They just assumed, and I…didn’t correct them.” She watched his face, praying she had not smashed that elephant. 

After a few seconds, a bemused smile curved his lips, and he held her gaze. “I like the way you think, Sloane.” 

**TBC**


	12. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a bastard, Jack,” he said with a light laugh, but she saw the sincerity in the clear blue of his eyes. “It’s well-established in my history. Relationships, uh, just don’t seem to work out for me.” He took her left hand in his and threw her a sad smile that had barely formed before it disappeared. “And people end up getting hurt…in a lot of ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. There were lots of things I wanted to do with this chapter, but sometimes a writer can try to get too much in one story. I will leave some of those other things for another tale. I have to acknowledge my great “editor-in-chief” Wulfie, who always keeps me from being lazy about rewriting scenes to make them better. Damn her! I also want to thank everyone who has left such encouraging comments. Writers live for those in the fan fiction world! It makes me happy that people enjoyed the story.

**Chapter 12: Waiting**

**One Month Later**

She backed through the front door, one packed grocery bag cradled in her elbow and another balanced against one shoulder. As soon as she kicked the door closed behind her, the smell of cowboy steaks sizzling on the fireplace grill made her mouth water. Sure enough, when she turned the corner into the living room, there he was, bent over the fire, one knuckle of his left hand – in deference to the cast on his right – testing the readiness of the thick cuts of beef.

“Potatoes are in the oven,” he told her causally, as if they did this every evening.

Hitching up the grocery bags to grasp them more securely, she walked past him through the dining room and into the kitchen. “I was going to make some soup, but this is much better.” It would do no good to remind him that it was premature to add steaks back to his diet. Plus, they smelled delicious.

Gibbs had been home almost three weeks, after badgering Dr. Omondi, the physical therapist, Ducky, and every nurse who walked in his room to let him go early. Neither of them had corrected the medical staff about their relationship, so no one blinked when he placed a kiss against her mouth before sliding into the passenger seat of the Charger at the hospital entrance. She had Leon to thank for suggesting she take the NCIS sedan instead of her Mini Cooper, pointing out that it might be uncomfortable for a wounded Gibbs to try to fold his tall frame into that compact car.

For the first week he was home, she had taken off work, preparing meals, washing clothes, forcing prescribed antibiotics and pain meds, even when he insisted he was fine; the tightness around his eyes and clenched jaw always gave him away. He directed her to stow her gear in his room, which she did, justifying her guilty pleasure of being surrounded by his “presence” with the fact that he was racking on the sofa for a while.

At the beginning of the second week, he grew restless and irritable, impatient with the forced rest and ready to be done with recuperation. After successfully demonstrating that he was able to tend to his own meals and even navigate the basement stairs – with the promise that he would religiously utilize the hand railing – he sent her back to work. Still, she showed up at his house each evening, and he had yet to mention anything about her returning to her own place.

As she slid a new carton of milk onto the top shelf of the ancient refrigerator, she heard him ask, “Good day?”

“Not bad.” She could get used to the domesticity of this conversation. The rest of the soup ingredients were distributed between the crisper and the pantry before she pulled open the oven door to check the potatoes. 

A few minutes later, they were seated at his spartan table, enjoying his favorite meal and discussing how well McGee was leading the team while Gibbs had been out. She cackled at his stories about Probie Tim when the young man had first become part of the MCRT, but she also smiled at the obvious pride in Gibbs’ voice when he shared how much his SFA had grown in the past 17 years. She had no doubt the two men had bonded deeply during their horrific captivity in Paraguay, from which they had returned only weeks before she moved to D.C., and she had witnessed the genuine affection between the two.

With the table cleared and dishes washed, Gibbs made his way to the couch, the effects of his increased activity visible in the stiffness of his movement. Jack chose not to mention it. Instead, she joined him there, handing him a cup of coffee and settling back with her own extra-sweet brew.

“So,” she broached carefully, “I was thinking.”

He flinched. “Uh oh.”

“What?”

“Women start out like that…usually doesn’t end well for me.” His mouth twisted up in a smile, but his eyes were not quite as light.

She laughed. “Ah, well, I think you are safe this time.”

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You didn’t bring any golf clubs with you, did ya?”

She tilted her head curiously, but he only smiled. Now _that_ was a story she would have to dig up someday. “Not this time, Cowboy. I was just thinking that if you are well enough to fix supper, you are probably ready for me to get out of your hair.”

The smile faded from his lips.

“You’re overdue for some basement, boat, and bourbon,” she teased, but was surprised to see him wince. “Also, you’ve been on the couch for three weeks. I bet you are ready to get back into your own bedroom.”

He remained silent, staring at her with unnerving icy blue.

“I mean…aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I what?”

“Ready for me to go?”

He blinked, drew a breath, and cleared his throat. “Rather ya didn’t.”

It was her turn to stare.

“Unless you want to…” he added quietly.

When her heart started beating again, she shook her head, relief flowing through her, and took the chance to lean in to press a kiss at the edge of his mouth. It was only a small shift that brought his lips fully against hers. As their coffees were abandoned on table, her hands found his temples, the tender, new scar, the shining silver hair, short and bristly in the back, longer and soft on top. His fingers threaded through her blonde locks, his hand held her head gently, cradled her face. When the kisses finally ended – temporarily she sincerely hoped – they sat looking at each other, smiles that she would describe as almost silly highlighting their expressions.

Then, slowly, his smile gave way to hard seriousness. Jack felt her chest tighten. “What?” she asked.

“I’m a bastard, Jack,” he said with a light laugh, but she saw the sincerity in the clear blue of his eyes. “It’s well-established in my history. Relationships, uh, just don’t seem to work out for me.” He took her left hand in his and threw her a sad smile that had barely formed before it disappeared. “And people end up getting hurt…in a lot of ways.”

She covered their clasped hands with her right one, her thoughts going to the obvious cause of his concern. “Shannon’s death is not your fault, Gibbs.”

But he was already shaking his head. “More than Shannon.” She watched him take a shuddering breath before he shifted his gaze to some spot on the wall behind her. “Kate, Jen, Ellen…Diane.” After a pause, he continued, “Rebecca, Stephanie, Ryan, Hollis.”

She couldn’t help the lift of her brow. How many exes did he have?

“I run them off, they run off, or…they die.” His eyes closed for a second, and when he reopened them, he was looking straight at her. She gasped at the depth of pain and self-condemnation in them.

“No,” she urged, using her grip on his hand to pull him closer. “Gibbs, sometimes we worry so much about what might happen that we unconsciously do things to make it happen. Self-fulfilling prophesy.”

“You sayin’ I sabotage my relationships?”

“I’m saying you’ve worried so much about messing things up, that you – “

“Mess things up,” he finished.

She looked at him, a sad smile pressing her lips tight.

He sighed, slid his hand away from hers, and stood, turning to face his living room window. She saw him catch himself as he straightened, flinching briefly. When he spoke, it was so soft that she had to strain her ears to hear, and her heart ached at his words.

“When I was out – hallucinating, I guess – I re-lived getting tracked by Logan…but then Logan turned into Sergei Mishnev shooting Diane…and then Ari shooting Kate, and then – “ His voice broke and she saw him clench his fists and lower his head.

Torn between waiting until he could regain control and comforting him, Jack eased up behind him so that her body would be close. After a few moments, he managed to continue, his voice raw.

“And then it was you, Jack. They were all… _you_ , and I was trying to keep them from – “ Raising a hand to press against the wound over his temple, he rasped out, “But I couldn’t, and you – I _begged_ you to go.”

Eyes wide, heart pounding, she lifted a hand to her heart, realizing what he was describing, what she had heard in his hospital room, and tears trickled down her cheeks at his anguish.

“But I – damn it, Jack, I didn’t want you to go.” He turned now, anger giving him strength to look at her as he grabbed her by the arms, his eyes fierce, intense. “I’m a selfish son of a bitch, Jack. People around me die, or leave, and I need you to stay away from me, but, God help me, I don’t _want_ you to!”

In the three years she had known him, she had never seen him so emotional, so unmasked. There was nothing else she could do but fling her arms around him and hold him tightly against her. After only a second’s hesitation, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, and he buried his face into her neck.

Much more subdued, he whispered, “’Love never works out.’ That’s what Joe said. He was right. Every time I think – maybe I can try again, risk my – “ Even with his voice muffled, she heard the sharp pain. “Cyril Taft told me everybody is afraid of something.” A humorless laugh shook him slightly. “’Even the great Leroy Jethro Gibbs.’” She heard the insinuated quotation marks. “I’m afraid, Jack. I’m afraid that if I – if I risk my heart, it will be destroyed again, or worse, it will destroy _you_ , and…I…can’t – “

Slowly, she rubbed her right hand up and down his back and slid her left hand into the short hair at the back of his head, careful of his injuries. “That’s not fear,” she said into his ear. “It’s preservation, which I know something about.”

She tried gently to pull away, but his arms were like steel around her, so she relaxed back into him. “After Faith was born, I didn’t risk love again for a long time. I didn’t want to take a chance again. And then, with the Wingos, it was a different kind of love, but it hurt so badly that I closed up my heart again. I had a few relationships along the way, but I always managed to keep them from getting too far before I found a reason to break them off.”

He was silent but she could tell he was listening by the steady breathing and the soft press of his lips against her neck. Trying not to be distracted by the unexpected touch that was sending tingles through her, she cleared her throat and continued.

“Then, one day, I realized that if I kept not risking my heart, I might be keeping someone else from being able to risk their heart… _his_ heart…for me.” 

She felt him stop, his breath hot on her skin, his heart thudding so hard she could feel and hear it. Slowly, his hands slid down her back to rest just at the curve of her hips and his lips began to burn a path from her neck to her jaw until they reached the corner of her mouth.

By now, her own heart was pounding, and the rest of her body was almost shaking in surprised anticipation. After several seconds, during which she figured he was giving her a chance to change the course of what was about to happen, his mouth shifted over hers, pressing softly but firmly, waiting. She could taste the hope on his lips. Eager for her own sample, she opened her mouth to him, sighing in relief and joy when he pulled her hard against him, escalating the kiss until they were both clutching wildly at each other. It was as if three years of smoldering fire had suddenly combusted. Hands snatched at clothing, tongues licked and sucked and tugged, hips thrust.

In some distant part of her brain, she knew that they were in his living room, that any of the team who wanted to check on him could just walk in, that he was still wounded, still tender. But he didn’t seem too wounded when he dropped to his knees, tugging her pants and panties down with him, and pressed hot kisses between her trembling legs. So she told that distant part of her brain to shut up.

And then she was on his couch, and Gibbs was naked, and he was as beautiful as she had imagined him to be, all long, lean muscles, swirls of silver-gray across his chest, darkening as they trailed downward over a stomach that was, if not quite as ripped as it had been 20 years before, still flat, still defined, and still very, very sexy. Her arms grabbed at his shoulders, and she felt the muscles shift and bunch under her fingers.

He stopped devouring her long enough to look into her eyes, his emotions raw and open to her. At that moment, she knew he was all in, no retreating, no one-and-done. Catching her breath, she tried to convey the same message back with her own intense gaze. He must have understood, because he pulled her to him and turned them so that she lay on the soft sofa cushions, and he hovered over her, his jaw clenched, his chest heaving, and his erection iron-hard and burning against her. She let her eyes roam from his strong, handsome face, over his long torso to rest on the impressive shaft that branded her. Yes, he was a beautiful, beautiful man. The ache within her intensified with her perusal, and she felt her hips rise to encourage him, her legs open wider to accommodate him, her hands slide between them to encircle him.

He grunted, bracing with his good arm and thrusting forward into her grasp as she guided him home, unable to suppress the groan that pushed through her lips at the sensation of being so completely filled, one deliciously thick inch at a time until he was as deep as she could take him. With ragged breaths, he rested his forehead against hers, conveying without words his need to pause for a moment. It thrilled her to realize she affected him that way. Devilishly, she squeezed her muscles around him.

“Jack!” he gasped.

She grinned, pleased, but had mercy and eased up. “Can’t help it,” she confessed. “You feel so damn good, Cowboy.”

He managed his own grin, even though it looked a little pained. She hoped that was from passion and not injury. “Hell, Sloane, _good’s_ not even close.” He punctuated his response by pulsing hard inside her.

She was pretty sure her answer was unintelligible, but he didn’t give her a chance to reflect on it, because he chose that moment to pull back in a deliberate, measured motion and then sink into her again, hitting just exactly right to send shock waves shooting from her core to the very tips of her fingers and toes. She clung to him as he thrust in and out, sometimes adding a twist of his hips that drove her closer and closer to the edge. Finally, she felt his rhythm stutter and heard his breathing labor, and she arched up just as he pushed down.

The initial burst of ecstasy jerked her body hard, then rolled into convulsions that had her bucking against him wildly. She heard him gasp her name just before she felt hard, hot punches deep inside over and over as he filled her. Locking her legs around his waist and hips, she rode out the intense waves with him until they collapsed onto the cushions, chests heaving, bodies tangled together, skin slick with sweat and passion…and hearts inextricably entwined.

**XXX**

His side hurt like a son of a bitch, the cast on his arm was itching, and he had the tingle of a headache at his temple. But lying on the couch, his body completely satisfied, a gorgeously naked Jack Sloane draped over him, equally satisfied – he was pretty sure – with an afghan haphazardly arranged to cover them, Leroy Jethro Gibbs felt better than he had in years.

Her fingers danced lightly on his chest, her lips occasionally brushed against his shoulder. “You okay?” she asked casually, but he heard her insistence underneath. 

“What do _you_ think?” he returned, light tone matching hers.

She slid her right leg between his, her knee nudging at his groin, and despite the recent exhausting exertions, that part of him jerked eagerly. _Hell yeah._

“I think you are _much_ more than okay. I think you are amazing.”

“Yeah?” Well, he felt pretty amazing at the moment.

“Yeah.” He felt her arm push across his stomach, his muscles involuntarily bracing to protect his aching side, but she was careful when her hand rested over the raw scar. “Gibbs?”

“Hmm?”

“I shouldn’t have…pushed.”

He chuckled, purposefully ignoring whatever she was really talking about. “Believe me, Jack, I am really glad you pushed. Wouldn’t have been as fun if you hadn’t.”

“Oh, if you weren’t injured – “ she threatened, but he heard the laugh. 

“It’s okay.” His fingers, extending out of the cast, ran over her back.

Sighing, she insisted, “No, it’s not. That day, when you told me you were going to the cabin, I wanted to go with you, and I put you in a position to have to turn me down.”

“Jack – “

“You needed that time alone. I get it, and I should have realized that. Of course, if I had gone, maybe – “

“Maybe you’d be – “ Pinching his eyes shut, he shoved the memory of nightmares from his thoughts. After a moment, he relaxed at the brush of her lips on his chest. “Got to get back down there and make a few repairs now.” That was an understatement. 

“ _Do_ you?” she asked enigmatically, making him tilt his head down to look at her.

“Well, _yeah_. I think it kinda got trashed.”

Her eyes twinkled as she twisted to see his face. “That’s what Nick, Tim, Ellie, Jimmy, and Kasie thought, too. Plus Leon. That’s why they have gone up there the past three weekends to work on it. You should have only a few things left to do.”

Irritation flared before he recognized it as pride and territorialism, which quickly retreated, overtaken by humility, gratitude, and a touch of embarrassment. _You do what you have to for family._ He could not fault his family for following his own rules, even though that one had never been given an official number.

Nodding, he held her closer, wondering if he could hang on to this tranquility long enough to get used to it.

“So,” she continued, “laying her head back against his shoulder, “you can go back without having to work too hard to enjoy it. Just rest and refresh for a few days.” Then, voice more direct, she warned, “But no wood chopping!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. His side would make sure of that for a while. But as he envisioned himself back at the cabin, he realized that wasn’t the way he wanted it now.

“Jack…” he began, swallowing down the old familiar uncertainty that tried to push into his throat.

She interrupted at his pause, her warm honey eyes almost glowing with understanding. “Go. The cabin is waiting on you.” 

With her words, that swallow suddenly became easy. He tilted his head a little and kissed the bridge of her nose. Urging her over on top of him so that their bodies pressed together intimately and her lips hovered over his, he kissed her with all the honesty and openness that he possessed. He felt her own emotion, just as honest and open, flow back to him.

“It’s waiting on _us_ …Jack,” he said firmly. “It’s waiting on _us_.” 

**END**


End file.
